


Crying An Ocean

by Nihonkikuasa211



Category: Code Black (TV)
Genre: Angst, Child Death, Code Black AU, F/M, Falling In Love, Petriatic Oncologist Neal Hudson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-04
Updated: 2016-11-04
Packaged: 2018-08-28 22:47:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8465875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nihonkikuasa211/pseuds/Nihonkikuasa211
Summary: Neal was the pediatric oncologist to Christa Lorenson's son. That didn't mean that in this universe he didn't fall in love with her anyway.





	

                                                                      _Crying An Ocean_

                   

                Dr. Hudson knew that was he was feeling wasn’t ethical. His eyes were red with tears as he saw a small casket buried into the ground. But it was nothing compared to the woman in his arms.

              Christa Lorenson was holding on his arm is if the organic material, blood, muscles, and bone was all that was helping her hold onto whatever wisp of sanity she had left. Her blond hair was neatly combed, no longer in tangles and frayed at the ends when he first found her splayed across her bed. The worn nightgown that she wore faintly revealed the pale skin of her throat, and of how hard she was trembling. The human inside Neal was worried. He had heard the grieving mother argue with her husband over their son’s treatment. Their hoarse shouts and the sound of sobs and kneeing was something that Neal had heard too many times in his career as a pediatric oncologist. He had learned to leave the parents alone in their grief, even as some argued over their child, who was struggling to live with each breath. Neal remembered of how Christa – just Christa then in the two years he had been her son’s doctor – had come to him, drained after one of the many arguments with her husband, her head bowed as her husband furiously left her in search of _“some air.”_ Neal had carefully placed himself in front of the younger woman, aware of how her breathing was uneven and she was in vain trying not to cry.

              _“Mrs. Lorenson?”_ he remembered whispering. At the sound of a familiar voice, the blond looked up and he could see the despair drowning in the woman’s eyes. Neal’s stomach fell. His mentor had taught him that he should learn how to read the patient’s emotions, and the parents of patients’ as well, because oncology was a place that bred fear and suffering. How many times had he told parents that the cancer was too advanced, that they could not operate, or that Sally had only a couple months to live? How many times had he seen a child attached to a ventilator, tubes obscuring the child’s face as a parent sat on the chair as they silently cried? His father had been surprised when he had decided to transfer from surgery to pediatric oncology. The elder Hudson had not spoken for a moment, before he turned to his son and told him to be brave. Neal kept records of the children who survived – remission was always heaven for those involved in oncology, and sometimes the children or the children parents’ sent him letters of how they were doing. Some thank you cards he held dear. Faces of the children who did not survive – Malcom, who had only a month to live and was no longer the boy who loved books and to be read to; Arianna, a two-year old who died in her father’s arms as he sang to her, the fragile and almost skeletal body pulled away from the sobbing father who didn’t want to let her go; Liam, who had white-blond hair and loved to color and greeted Dr. Hudson with a smile even as he grew weaker and eventually had to have a feeding tube; his thin face pale as the oncologist told his single mother that her son would not live to see the summer that he loved so much; Olive, a teen with a dream of becoming a doctor and living a life free of chemo and radiation, had been held in Neal’s arms as she took her final breaths.

              David Lorenson had been four years old when he was diagnosed with cancer. His parents hadn’t been as fractured as they were now, and Neal had listened to the sweet and gentle boy talk about his love for trucks, his mommy and daddy. He especially loved the ocean. The little boy loved the beach, but he wanted to see the ocean someday. Even when the chemotherapy started and David was attached to more machines, the little boy’s concern was of his parents. Christa was careful to not cry in front of her son; it was one of the first things that Neal told the parents. _“They can see when you are sad, and when you are afraid. Whatever fears they have about being sick…makes them more afraid when they see your fear. Be strong for them. I’m sorry, but be strong for them until you go home. Then you can cry.”_ David, however, did not become afraid when he saw his father cry when he told Dr. Hudson. _“I’ll get better, right Dr. Hudson? Then Daddy won’t be sad.”_ Neal still had the Christmas card the little boy had given him. It read, _Merry Christmas_ with backwards letters, and the figure of Santa was replaced by Neal, wearing a white coat and handing out candy instead of injections. Neal had only told his mother that he had cried for a long time after receiving the card from a little boy who shown the sings of not making it.

              How was this possible? Neal didn’t know why children got sick and died. People had asked him, after hearing that he treated children with cancer, of how he dealt with it. Neal didn’t truly know how. He had said that living moment by moment helped, but was that truly it? How was it possible that bright and innocent human beings that had barely lived, died so young? Neal didn’t understand of how he came to fall in love with Christa Lorenson. He and the woman had started to grow attached shortly after the first year, and Neal had tried to deafen the feelings he had for a woman who he shouldn’t have feelings for. Christa was married. Christa had a dying son, and would not be happy to know that her son’s doctor had fallen in love with her. It had simply started by liking her smile. The small times when the oncologist saw Christa smile was like a beacon. He was happy, and at the same time ashamed of himself as the sight of the blond-haired woman three times a week brightened him. His collogues had noted a drive in him as he focused more and more on one of his patients named David Lorenson, intent on beating the cancer that was destroying his body. No one said a word as they saw sometimes Neal and Christa talking in the hallway, or how the English doctor allowed her to lean on him as she cried after her husband left in fury, disappointment, or sadness – _“It’s over, Christa! Our son’s already dead!”_ – as her son struggled to breathe and as he grew weaker and weaker.

              _I’m sorry,_ Neal wanted to whisper to her when she told him, in a voice void of emotion, that she would be taking David home. Neal had watched silently as he saw Christa carry her son tenderly in her arms even though he barely weighed anything, kissing his head as her husband watched the scene in emptiness. Neal had told Christa to call him if her ever needed her. A full week had passed, and the doctor had spilled his tea when he saw the obituary for David in the newspaper early that morning. He did not mind the scalding tea soaking his pants, and instead drove all the way to where he knew Christa’s home was. He had found her in a bed, staring at the ceiling in nothing but a nightgown. _“He left,”_ she croaked after minutes of only breathing and silence. Neal understand. He didn’t say a word, knowing that his words would meaning nothing to her, for a beautiful soul that had lost so much.

              Neal had asked Christa if there was anyone that she could call, and she looked at him for a moment. _“There’s no one,”_ she whispered. Her voice cracked, and her red-rimmed eyes shut almost violently as she turned her head away. _“Please. Neal.”_ That was the first time she had said his name. _“I want to be alone.”_

Neal understood that it was unlikely that Christa would want him to attend her son’s funeral, but he did. He would not follow her words this time. The little boy had been her world, and Neal had been touched by his life. A small lump appeared in his throat, and the clear blue sky appeared to mock them. _David would have loved this day._ Christa’s chin buried in his shoulder as silent cries emerged from her throat, and Neal held her.

              The memory of the smiling boy, still with his blond hair that he inherited from his mother and watching the clouds as they rested among with sun in his wheelchair that his father pushed was enough for Neal to begin to tear.

              Both of their tears were enough to make an ocean. An ocean, that despite his fervent wish, that David would never see.


End file.
